This Town
by Neo Genesis1
Summary: One of the hardest lessons to learn is that childhood isn't meant to last. When a fight over leadership arises, the oldest paper peddlers of New York began to realize just how true that is.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Newsies belongs to Disney Inc. I claim no ownership of any characters originating from the movie. On the other hand I do claim sole rights to any original characters you may happen upon in the future.

**Author's Note**: Where to begin? Firstly, this is a rewrite of the original May Hell Freeze Over. I've been very unhappy with the first edition and found it imperative that I do something about it. So here it is. A few things had been changed around (OK, I lie, it's a lot) character wise and plot wise. I suggest, for those who are familiar with the old version to take most of what you remember and throw it out the nearest window. It was good, but this will be a million times better.

On that note, if you feel pressed to have a copy of the original story, contact me and let me know. I'd keep it up, but has rules about double posting, even if certain things have changed. And I don't want to be on their poo list, if you know what I mean.

I won't be writing individual responses to reviews any longer. It takes up a considerable amount of story space and time. I will on the other hand acknowledge those reviews that make some sort of contribution to the story itself. Sorry if this, well, sucks. But it's how I feel.

This Town

Chapter 1

He was giving him that look. The one where his full lips were pulled thin by a frown and his eyes, despite the harsh afternoon sun illuminating his face, were dark and hooded. The "Cowboy Stare" as some had nervously named it didn't go unnoticed by Spot. The difference between him and the many others who'd been subject to the stare before him was simple. Spot Conlon could give a New York rat's ass.

"Look here, Kelly." He pointed a finger at the younger man leaning on the crates across from him. In subject of years there was little age difference between the two but a few months. Spot didn't gage the issue of age by years; he went by experience. In his eyes, Jack still had very little. "The way I see it, you own me one."

Jack crossed his arms and turned his heavy gaze to the other boys milling around the docks. Most were lacking shirts or pants. Some both. Dressing down was understandable though considering the heat wave the city had been experiencing for the past couple of days. Everyone was uncomfortable. It was too hot to sit inside waiting for the relief of nightfall. As a result most of the city was out trying to beat the weather. It was like molasses, sticky and viscous, but still sweet. And that little bit of sweetness made it all right. This was the only time an upper class gentleman would share the shade of some building (and luckily his flask if he was feeling especially generous) with a street rat and put on no airs.

He turned to Spot. "I don't want nothin' to do with that goil."

"I don't care what you want. This is my favor. You can accept it, and we'se even." Spot smiled a little and shrugged, "Or, you can turn your back on me, again I might add, and I make your life a living hell."

"I thought you were over that. 'Forgive an' forget,' right Spot?" Jack frowned.

"I forgave, I'm neva gonna forget. I put my neck on the line for you, and you turn scab."

"You don't know my reasons for doing that." He retorted. "And I'm not having this conversation with ya again."

Spot sighed quietly and pulled off his cap to run his fingers through his sweat dampened hair. He didn't like Jack's attitude, nor did he like relenting to him. But he had neither the energy or the patients to start the feud again. It had taken months for them to regain a small semblance of their former friendship, and the situation that he was currently in was too important to break that fragile bond.

He placed his cap back on his head and crossed his own arms. "You're gonna hear 'er out at least."

Jack was staring off into the distance again, trying to ignore the demanding tone in the other boys voice. "Well, I didn't walk all the way 'ere for nothin'."

A few moments of silence passed between the two of them as the summer sun continued to beat down on their already baked shoulders. Spot glanced longingly at the river, wishing he had the luxury of going for a swim like that others did.

"Duty." He muttered. Jack gave him a questionable look, which he ignored. "She's late."

"She's from Queens. Or course she's late." Jack responded, as if it explained everything. Spot just frowned.

The stone under their feet continued to cook as they waited for the girl in question. It was high noon, time for lunch and maybe a nap. But he was out here waiting for Rogue, who probably wouldn't been on time to her own funeral. It was an incredibly annoying trait that most Queens newsies shared. Spot always suspected that there was some other motivation behind it besides their horrible concept of time management. It had never been a problem until she took over.

"How's ya goil doin'?" He asked suddenly, "What's 'er face..."

"Sara." Jack said for his benefit. "She's fine." He was didn't say any more about it.

"You two pretty serious, huh? It's been ova a year." He continued, trying to get the other boy out of his lousy mood. He also figured it wouldn't hurt to get his mind on something else, particularly another female. He and Rogue weren't exactly on the best of terms. Hadn't been so for a number of years.

"Yeah, I guess. What's dis all about, Spot? Why is she callin' for help all of a sudden?"

And they were back on the subject of her again. Spot leaned back on wooden post behind him.

"Don't know. Merc came 'round this morning and said she needed to talk." Merc was from Queens, and pretty much Rogues third eye and ear. He was fairly young and easy to ignore. People tended to forget that he was around. For that reason, Merc knew almost everything that went down in the city. Not to mention he was fast, so on the rare occasions that he did get caught sticking his noise someplace it didn't belong, he'd simply turn tail and run. Spot had given him his name. He remembered stories about a messenger for some gods that was legendary because of his speed. He could never remember if it was the Romans or the Greeks. Either way, the name was a hell of a lot better the what the kid had before Spot christened him. No respectable newsie went around being called Wilbur.

"You're lying." Jack replied. "Somethings goin' on. The other boroughs are edgy. But nobody knows what the problem is. 'Cept for her and _you_."

"Hey, don't go round accusing me of things." Spot responded, defensive because he actually did know. At least part of it. Merc may have claimed Queens as his home but he was loyal to anyone who offered the highest price. "And what does it matter? Ya here and ya gonna hear it straight from 'er mouth."

The glared at each other before Spot frowned. "You know, somebody needs to do something 'bout that bad attitude of yours."

Jack took the bait. "I suppose you want to be that somebody, right?"

"Yeah, maybe I should-"

"Well if you two ain't a sight for sore eyes, I don't know what is."

He turned to the person who'd cut him off. Rogue was standing there with her hands on her hips, her weight rested on her right leg.

"You ladies done with ya bickering? I kinda got somethin' important to talk about."

She raised an eyebrow as she reached in her front pocket, pulled something out and popped it into her mouth before turning around walking away.

"Crazy broad." Spot growled after her and followed with Jack close behind.

"Can we get this over with, Rogue? I've already been waiting on you for an hour."

She stopped next to a tall, brawny boy. One of the Queens newsies that had been around for as long as he could remember. He threw an arm over Rogue's shoulder when she stood next to him. They had always been each others security blankets, like brother and sister. In fact, she was closer to him then she was to her actual brother, who showed up in New York a few months after she did. Despite his appearance, and the tenacious behavior that went with it, Brute had a soft spot for her.

"How's it going?" He greeted them.

"Burning up, but alright." Spot tilted his head up a little. "You?"

"Ratty." He said, but didn't elaborate.

"The city coroner buried Saint yesterday." Rogue said suddenly. Spot frowned. Merc definitely hadn't mentioned anyone dying when he saw him earlier.

"Say dat again?" Jack spoke to her for the first time since her arrival. He sounded a little confused, but mostly upset.

"You heard me." Her voice was soft and not in the least bit belligerent. She just sounded tired, and now that Spot thought about it, she looked in too. "I was hoping it wouldn't escalate to what it has, but no one seemed that interesting in helping me keep the peace. Saint," She paused to chew at her bottom lip, "He got caught up in it. I told him to leave it alone, but he neva really listens to me much anyway."

"What are you talking about? What the hell is going on?"

"Spot didn't tell you?"

"No." Jack turned to him. "Nobody's told me nothin'."

"She's having a turf war." Spot said, reaching behind his ear to for a hand rolled cigarette, then fishing in his pocket for a book of matches. "It's been goin' on for about a month now." He lit the cigarette, taking a long drag before shaking the match out and exhaling. "Told you dat kid was a loony. Shouldn't have taken him in."

"What can I say, I'm hard at hearin'." She pulled out of Brute's embrace and reached for Spots cigarette. "The kid, his name is Johnathan Wilcox. He showed up back in the spring lookin' to be a newsies. Like Spot said, he was a little crazy. I mean, you could see it in his eye, ya know? But he didn't have a place to stay and he had dis sister he was trying to care for. I felt bad for 'em." She inhaled twice and handed it back to him before stuffing her hands into the pockets of her pants.

"Things were alright for awhile. He and his sister were both selling papes and sleeping at the lodging house. But they kept to themselves. Sometimes he wouldn't even come back afta selling, and if he did he'd be out of his head with booze. The kid's got a lot a vices, and I think he does more then drink. I finally said something to him, told him if he didn't shape up he was out. Course he flips and starts screaming a yellin' and stuff. We got into it, but some of my boys roughed him up a bit and put him out. His sister, she went with 'im."

"What's this got ta do with Saint." Jack asked.

She turned to him, her look glower. "Let me finish, will ya Jacky Boy?"

"Don't call me that."

"Pissy mood you got there. You on the rag?"

"Hey," Spot jumped in, "Cut that mess out and finish what you were sayin'."

She huffed and folded her arms, "Saint died cause he couldn't mind his business. Wilcox is tryin' ta take my place, and I'm fine with standing my ground on my own. I'm fine with people that can handle their own backing me up" She paused, looking past them at the kids idling around the docks. "But people like him, like Saint, shouldn't get involved. It ain't right." She sighed, reached into her pocket again, and popped a small brown object into her mouth. Spot recognized what she was eating. Pecans. She probably grabbed a bag during her walk. He did mean grab. It was very rare that a Queens newsie paid for anything they could steal without getting caught.

"I didn't come here to ask for your support," she said while still chewing. "I just want to ask a favor. House some of my kids. The young ones, and a few that don't know what to do with a fist. That's all I want."

Suddenly all eyes were on him and inwardly Spot cursed. Being the most respected news boy in New York had its perks. A lot in fact. But he could never get over the fact that so many people looked to him to make _their_ decisions.

"That's all you want?"

She nodded.

"I can spare about five or six rooms. They'll have to double up, but I don't suspect they'll complain to much."

She nodded again and then turned to look at Jack, who was still scowling.

"Yes or no, Jack. I need an answer before rapture."

"Keeping your newsies won't bring me into the fight, right? My boys won't get caught up in your bull?" He asked. She seemed ready to jump down his throat. Her eyes narrowed and her tongue darted out to wet her lips, something she often did when she was about to say something particularly nasty. Spot was already calculating ways to halt the verbal blows that they were about to sling, but Brute salvaged to situation even before it got started. He placed a hand on her shoulder and then spoke something softly to her.

"Ah hell." She exclaimed before running a hand over her face. She turned to look at Brute and they exchanged an unuttered understanding. "My bull." She repeated and the hand on her shoulder tightened slightly.

"Fine." She hissed through gritted teeth. "No, your boys aren't in danger of bein' caught in my fight. He's only interested in people that stand up for me."

Jack seemed to consider this for a moment before shrugging. "I don't want no kids. Kloppin's got enough trouble with us. He'd don't need any Queen brats causing him heart failure."

"Whateva you say, Cowboy." She pushed Brutes hand off while sending him a glare. "That's all I wanted. I'll send 'em over before nightfall, when it cools off a bit."

They both started to walk away, but Spot called after her.

"Hold up a bit, I'se wanna speak to you." She nodded at Brute and he went on.

Jack moved up next to him still frowning. "Any reason for me to hang around?"

"No."

"Good." And then he was gone, retracing the same path through the docks that he'd taken to arrive and ignoring, as usual, the threating stares he got. That left him and Rogue alone. She ate another pecan and looked at him with questioning eyes.

"What's goin' on over there?"

She brushed off his question. "You got some more leaves? I need a smoke."

"Inside. Come on."

When the reached the lodging house he went in before her, not bothering with the courtesy of holding the door open for her. She was too rough around the edges to care either way. But when he glanced at her over his shoulder she looked pissed. He stopped and turned to see what the problem was and she shoved him. Hard. Hard enough to make him stumble a little as he tried to keep his footing.

"Asshole." She spat at him before hunching her shoulders and bowing her head. Spot watched with confusion as she launched her self at him, tackling him and bringing them both to the dirty floor. He had enough presence of mind to minimize his impact with his own shoulders as much as he could so he wouldn't end up with his skull cracked open. But her weight and the force with which she went at him was enough to knock the breath out of his lungs.

She sat up with one hand, using his face as leverage, and he remembered humorlessly that this used to happen a lot in the past. He thought she'd grown out of the habit, but since she hadn't it was time to do something about it. He didn't like being pushed around by anyone, even if it was a girl.

"Why'd you bring 'im here?" She demanded. He responded by grabbing her waist and pushing her backwards. At the same time he bucked his hips up. She lost her balance and went sparling on his legs, which he easily slipped from under her. In a mater of seconds he had their positions reversed, except he had her arms pinned to her side with his knees. She stared at him, her face placid except for widened eyes, but he could tell she was fuming inside.

"Now," he exhaled and grinned down at her with no amount of amusement, "Can we talk about this like adults?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: Refer to first chapter please.

**Author's Note**: My beta is taking awhile to proof this, so I'm posting it with as much editing I can do myself.

Thanks for the reviews.

This Town

Chapter 2

There was little one could do when under the scrutiny of Spot but accept the fact that he was going to get the answers he wanted. Stalling would only get you so far, and lying would get you nothing but trouble. Mostly the painful kind. The rules were bent slightly in her favor because she was a girl. But Rogue wasn't some dame in a pretty dress, gloves, and hat. She was a kid of the streets, just like him. She'd rubbed elbows with some of the worst and always came out on her feet. Sure, she may have stumbled a little on the way and there were always a few new bruises and scrapes, but she would be alright.

Spot had been there for many of those moments. Always on the sidelines, blue eyes taking in all that was said and done. Rarely stepping in and _never_ missing a thing.

To not be informed about Saint's death must have been a hard blow. Not to his feelings, for as far as she could tell he didn't express any. None that really mattered, anyway. All she'd ever been able to get out of him was anger, displeasure, or an occasional look of amusement when she did or said something that was worthy of his attention. Everything else was hid behind a carefully constructed mask of indifference that made him who he was: the most respected and feared newsie in the state, if not the tristate.

No, it wasn't his feelings being hurt that she had to worry about. It was his damned ego. Even to so much as scratch the surface of it was enough to ensure a wrath that would leave the most resilient of people wishing they still had parents that would allow them to crawl into their bed after a particular frightening nightmare. Anger from Spot left a residual disquietude that kept you on shells until, by some grace of God, he decided he was over it. Even then you kept an eye over your shoulder, just in case he changed his mind.

Rogue could tell by the casual smile he was giving her, the one that never quite reached his eyes, she was in for it. She had to find a way to pacify him, and fast, because she was fair game stuck under him the way she was.

"You remember when this used to be fun?" She asked suddenly, ignoring his question. The smiled wavered, slightly.

"No, I don't remember this eva being fun. I remember wanting to strangle you, but not being able to because there was always someone breathing down my neck 'bout not hittin' goils."

"I remember when this used to be fun."

"Yeah, well I remember that there ain't nobody here to tell me what to do anymore. And your little body guard is on his way back to Queens, and we're alone." He looked around the room to emphasize his point. "I'se got in my right mind to knock you in the head."

She wouldn't put it against him either. But instead of lashing out like she expected him to, the smile turned into a frown and he patted her on the cheek. "Not that it would do ya much good. I don't think you've got enough sense left in that head of yours ta withstand it." And then he sighed and rolled off her.

She watched him stand and straighten his clothes out in confusion. Leave it to him to use her own ploy of distraction against her. She often forgot that he was a lot smarter then he made himself out to be.

When she finally got up herself she saw that he was making his way out of the room.

"Hey, where you think ya goin'?"

He turned. "You wanted a smoke, didn't you?" She nodded, still lost, and he smirked. By the time he reached his bedroom she finally remembered that she was mad at him.

The Brooklyn lodging building had once been the most notorious brothel east of the Hudson. Back then it housed over twenty women, of varying ages, sizes, and nationalities, including two Asians (from China and Indonesia respectively) and one girl that had made her way all the way from Cyprus. But those days were long gone. Mademoiselle Lisette Ferronaire had closed shop and passed on. The many rooms that were once dens for any man's wildest dreams and fetishes was now home to about seventy teenage boys. They slept three or more to a room and shared six communal baths. Out of all the places that the many newsies in the city called home, whether it be a pay by night bed or a dry area under a bridge, the ones that were chosen to be apart of Brooklyn had the nicest.

The first official Brooklyn leader had been Mademoiselle Lisette Ferronaire's only mishap in her thirty something years of alternative services. A tenacious but well learned child by the name of Jean Pierre who in no way bore any resemblance to his mother with his dark hair and blue eyes. Jean had taken up the habit of selling newspapers to occupy his time after his studies. After a while, he gave up schooling all together in favor of his new profession. When the authorities put an end to the lady's profitable but lewd business, Jean suddenly found himself in possession of one of the best things to every happen in his life. The former whore house became the refuge for parentless and penniless boys, chosen by Jean himself for their street knowledge and survival skills.

Thus began the Brooklyn newsboys' reign of supremacy. Their resilient and truculent handle on life became well renowned. They weren't really the best of sellers because, truthfully, most of them hated it. But it was a good front for other ways to make an earning. Such as thieving and gambling, which it seemed to be a necessity when becoming a Brooklyn newsie. It wasn't easy to be admitted into their circle, and once accepted it was even harder to tough it out. But she and Spot had stuck through it together for many years before he earned his position and she had moved on to gain her own.

For as long as she could remember all he would sleep, drink, eat, and breathe was the prospect of being in charge of that base group of kids. After years of observing his passionate obsession she asked finally, out of curiosity, why he wanted the position so bad. He gave her that fabled smirk and pushed his hair, which was much longer and unkempt back then, out off his face.

"I want the room." It was said as if it was the most simple and obvious reason in the world.

Of course she had know that wasn't his only reason for wanting to be leader. He wanted the control, the power. He wanted to prove that a pale and malnourished Irish kid could hold his own and then some. That he could gain the respect of every child laborer in the city and have then hang on his every word and action. He wanted to be king of their poor and dysfunctional world. But she had to admit, as she walked through the threshold, the private room he received when gaining Brooklyn leadership was a pretty good reason to want to be in charge. The privacy and solitude that it offered in a world of constant interaction was very inviting. It must have been nice to have a place were people needed your express permission to enter. She certainly didn't.

His was sitting on the bed, one of three pieces of furniture that outfitted the tiny room, rolling the cigarette with his ink stained fingers. She leaned against the doorway and waited for him to finish before she spoke. She really wanted that smoke, and if she pissed him off she may never get it. He closed the tin can he kept the tobacco leaves in and stuck it under his mattress before licking the edge of the rolling paper and folding his over.

"So," he began as he held it out for her.

"So." She repeated as she walked over and sat on the bed with him. Once the cigarette was securely in her hands she crossed her arms and glared at him. "What was Kelly doing 'ere?"

His look said he was irritated. "He was goin' hear it either way. Might as well hear it when I did." Producing matches from his pocket, he held those out for her also, but when she went for them he pulled his hand back.

"What's with the secrets, Rogue?"

"Oh, as if you care. You didn't even know the kid." She scowled and grabbed his wrist to pry the matches from his hands.

"I don't need ta know him to understand it's a pretty shitty thing when he dies cause _your_ havin' a fray with some punk."

"I told him to mind his business." Her fingers were wrapped around his own, trying to loosen his grip enough to get to the book, but he wouldn't relent. "Damn it, Spot."

"Damn it nothin'." He pulled out of her grasp. "A boy is dead. Dead! Don't you get that? He was your responsibility and your actin' like he just ran off to join the freakin' circus."

She started a little at his outburst and he frowned before throwing the matches at her chest.

"Get your act together. I'm not cleaning this up for you, Rogue. Not this time."

"When have I eva asked you to fix my problems? I'm not a child and I don't need you treatin' me like one. I don't need a damn babysitter."

"Yeah you do." He said quietly and wiped the sweet off his forehead. "But I can't be there ta watch your back all the time. And I won't do it at all if you can't be straight with me. I shouldn't have ta pay Merc to know what the hell is going on ova there."

"I told you I don't need your help."

He shrugged and reached for the momentarily forgotten matches. "Doesn't mean I don't care." He struck one and held that out for her and she ran a hand over her tired eyes before leaning over and lighting her cigarette.

"We'se getting too old for this." He told her suddenly. It was a random comment to make and completely out out context, but she understood the point he was trying to make. Both of them were pushing eighteen and had long outgrown the newsies lifestyle. She had been thinking about it a lot. An awful lot. The times were changing, as they would say, and it was time for them to catch up.

"What are you gonna do?" She reached over him to flick ash into a empty can, his makeshift ashtray, before responding.

"I'm gonna get this Wilcox mess out of the way, and then I'm passin' it on. I'm not exactly newsie material anymore." She looked down at herself and gave a week smile. "People look at me funny. Don't think it's right for me to be doin' what I am. It's pretty obvious that I'm not boy, and goils my age should be thinkin' about marriage and a family and what kind of curtains should be hung up in the drawing room, silly stuff like that. Not selling papes and rollin' with scum like you."

He smiled back at her, the first genuine one he'd given her all day. She finished the cigarette stood.

"I should get goin'. I need to get _les petits diables_ ready to be sent here, since Jack doesn't want to be bothered with them." She said while fanning herself, using the nickname she often called the younger children that slept in her own lodging house.

"I'll clear some rooms out."

She nodded and headed for the door.

"Get some rest, you look like shit warmed over."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure thing, Dad." And then she walked out of the room, leaving one sweltering place for another.

The walk back to Queens was long, hot, and uneventful. She finished the bag of nuts in her pocket, thought about finding some real food to eat, but decided against it. She just wanted to go home. When she reached the fronts steps she found Brute waiting for her.

"Is everybody 'ere?"

"Yeah."

She nodded and started to go inside, but he grabbed her arm and held her back.

"Your brother showed up. Don't kill him." The last part was added as if it was an after thought. She sighed and walked in, seeing the others lounging around, suffering just as much in the impossible heat as she was. She searched the faces, looking for the one that matched her own. Someone noticed her inquest and told her that he was upstairs.

She found him in one of the bunk rooms. The air was much warmer up there and she sucked in a deep breathe at the sudden change.

"Claude Phillipe LeBlanc, you should be sure to know that _Mère_ will hear about this in my next letter. Disappearin' for almost a month. You had me out of my head with-"

She let the words trail off when she saw who was sitting next to him. Samantha Wilcox, younger sister of Johnathan Wilcox, gave her a sad smile and then looked down at her lap.

"Are you stupid? What is she doing here?"

"_S'il vous plaît_." He stood up from the bunk, "We need to get out of the city. I need money." She started at them both, hard. His look was pleading and Samantha kept her head bowed, her hands wrapped protectively around her middle. That's when she noticed.

"Oh, _mon frère_." She groaned weakly, falling to her knees on the hardwood floor. "Tell me you didn't."

He made no attempt to reply, not that he needed to. Rogue closed her eyes, shutting both their images out. The situation just kept getting worse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1.

**Author's Notes:** First off, review love. You guys are sweet.

Second, sorry for the long wait. Growing up sucks. I recommend you just don't do it.

And third, this has not been reviewed by my beta. She kinda fell off the face of the earth and I haven't been able to locate her. So I had to proof it as much as I could on my own. I'm the product of a public education, so don't expect too much from me. If you see any mistakes, please note them and then let me know. I won't be upset because I know I'm not perfect.

This Town  
Chapter 3

Tyrone spent his nights watching. For the most part, there was nothing to watch, but he enjoyed the act and never complained when it was his turn. He was a Brooklyn boy. Not one of the biggest, or the strongest, or the fastest. But he had a mouth that could spit acid and eyes that where sharp. For a while he was called Hawk but he put a stop the that quick. His mother had gone through hell to bring him into the world, and she had hung around long enough to give him a name. The least he could to was go by it. So Tyrone he was. And watched he did.

He thought of the lodging house as a fortress. Instead of stone and mortar it was wood with with a brick facade, but a fortress none the less and it was his duty to protect it. Most nights is was long, lonely work. He would spend the time smoking cigarettes and playing chess against himself. Both he and his imaginary component where terrible at the game, but it was something to pass the time. When morning came he'd take the ladder back down and crawl into bed. The sixty cents he'd left on the corner table would be gone and one of the better sellers would peddle double for his sacrifice of sleep. He'd be up by noon and had enough time to grab lunch before heading out to get the afternoon edition. This would go on for about a week before he switched off with someone else.

But tonight was different for two reasons. Spot was one edge. It was a rare occurrence, but when it happened everyone could feel it. So instead of working a one week shift, Tyrone was working two. He as a little sore about it. As much as he liked to watch he preferred to do it in the sunlight. Spot must have had his reasons, though, and it was best not to question him. He was the one with the best eyes so in the end it was his duty.

For the past two nights he had little to complain about. The air outside was much cooler and he didn't have to suffer the oven that was the inside. More importantly Pear was with him. And Pear was one hell of a girl. He didn't know what was going down in Queens, and he was sure it was something bad for Rogue to send over so many of her kids. But Pear was with the lot that were refuged in Brooklyn, and she was his girl.

Spot had maintained a strict no girl policy from the day he took control. In truth, Tyrone didn't object. Girls meant trouble, often a lot of it. But it also meant that there were a lot of days, sometimes weeks, that he was not able to see Pear. Suffice to say, their relationship was often a rocky one, more off then on. They were on tonight, and he smirked as she rolled over on her makeshift bed. She wasn't supposed to be up there. Spot was bound to find out and give him hell for it. Tyrone figured it was worth it.

He got up from his spot next to her and made his way quietly to the ledge of the roof, avoiding the week spots beneath his feet with practiced ease. There wasn't much in way of excitement happening on the streets below. He sighed and leaned against the ledge of the building, watching as a figure with a crop of dirty blonde hair and wearing dark skirts sauntered down the middle of the road. He let out a high pitched whistle. One that sounded very akin to the many birds that found it to hard to sleep in a city full of lights. She kept walking, but raised her head a little as she passed by. Tyrone noticed the jagged scar running down one cheek and smudged lipstick on the other. Must have been a profitable night he thought as she winked at him before rounding a corner and disappearing out of sight. Josephine was the neighborhood whore. Though she was quick with her tongue, and even quicker with the blade she hid in her many costumes, she treated the Brooklyn newsies like she would family and told them any word of things going down. The wink meant everything was quiet, so Tyrone returned to his pallet and started up a game of chess.

He had just set up all the pieces and was contemplating about whether or not he should wake up Pear to have a real person to play with when he heard a commotion from below. He started, glancing down at Pear as she rolled over and looked at him.

"What's all dat noise?" He hair was a mess and she ran skinny fingers through it as she sat up.

"Don't know. Stay 'ere." He stood up and made his way back to the ledge, keeping low as to not be seen by any passerbys. There were a group of boys walking from the direction Josephine had come from, hugging the shadows as they made their way towards the building. Tyrone eyed them, noting their size and the not so pleasant expressions they wore. Josephine was trailing behind them and, for once, he was very glad she had such a big mouth.

"_I don't know what you want with a bunch of little boys when you got a full grown woman ready and willing right 'ere,"_ she called after them. The shawl she'd been wearing a little earlier was now hanging limply in one hand exposing the low cut of her dress and the ample swell of her chest.

One of the boys walking turned to her and scowled, _"I'se told you to beat it. If I'se wanted to lay down with trash I'se sleep in a gutter."_

She didn't seemed hurt by his words and without missing a beat she walked closer to the other two people. _"What about you boys? Your friend there is as glum as they come. But I haven't seen you 'round here before." _She hooked her arm through one of the boy's elbow, _"Shame for you to walk all this way and not have a little fun." _

He jerked out of her hold and struck her across the face. Tyrone let out a muffled curse as she hit the stone ground with a shriek.

"_We told you ta cheese it, sweet face. But you'se hard of hearin'."_

"What's goin' on?" Pear asked. He didn't bother to look over at her, instead he held up a hand

"Shud up, will yah." he hissed in her direction. The boy was now holding a piece of wood above Josephine's head.

"_Tell me where dat Conlon kid is and I won't have to clean da wax outta you're ears."_

She pushed herself onto one elbow and held her cheek, the one without the scar, in her other hand.

"_What are you, deaf and dumb now? Answer his question." _The last of the three finally spoke.

"_I don't know where Conlon is. I ain't the boys mother,"_ she said, her eyes locked on the homemade bat hovering about her head.

"_You'se betta not be lying to me."_ He tapped her lightly on the forehead with the piece of wood.

"_Course she's lying, Jay, she's a whore. You never trust a whore. Don't matter no way, I see the building the kid stays."_

Jay turned turned to his companion._ "How da hell do you know?"_

"_I can read. And we're standing right in front of it."_

Jay turned, shouldering the bat and peered up at the sign above the door. Josephine was finally getting to her feet, eyeing all three of them as she made play of straightening out her clothes. Tyrone knew better, and guys assumption was correct. You never trust a whore. He caught the glint that reflected of the blade she seemingly pulled from thin air. The trio hadn't noticed. He turned to Pear, who was doing what she was told for once in her life and staying put.

"Go over to da chimney. There's a bucket sitting on it. When I tell ya to, knock it down into da fireplace."

She frowned at him, glancing to the right where the chimney stood. "What? What the hell is going on?"

"For God's sake, stop asking da same stupid question and get moving." He waited until she nodded before peering back down at the street below.

"_Must be it."_ Jay said as he walked a little closer. _"Not too shabby for a bunch of street rats." _

None of them noticed as Josephine crept up behind them, her fingers curled around the hilt of her knife and a determined gleam in her eye. Tyrone saw the look and swallowed hard. Whatever the three wanted was about to get a lot worse if she kept up.

"_Hey mister."_ Jay turned when she called out, flinching back a little when he saw how close she was. He'd must have hit her pretty hard because one side of her face was already starting to swell. She smiled anyway. A cold smile. Jay brought the bat down from his shoulder.

"_I hope your realize that's not how you treat a lady."_

He chuckled a little and his friends followed suit. None of them seemed to notice the weapon his her hand.

"_You'se ain't no lady."_

She tilted her head to the side a little, _"You know somethin'? You're right." _The fake smile dropped and her hand lashed out, arching up across his face. A loud and painful howl escaped his lips as he dropped the bat and reeled back, cradling his head in his hands. By the time the other two saw the blood seeping through his finger, Josephine was already halfway down the street.

"Pear, do it now." Tyrone ordered, his eyes never leaving the scene yards below him.

"Wha-"

"Stop bein' a ass and do what I say!"

The resulting crash as the metal bucket full of rocks clattered down the chimney was enough to let him know she had at least one ounce of sense. By the time the 'warning bell' had ceased its noise one of the boys on the street below had come to his own senses, picked up the bat, and taken off after Josephine. The other two glanced up at the ruckus and saw Tyrone looking down on them.

"_What the hell was that you little shit?"_ Jay asked and Tyrone couldn't help but smirk. There was an angry cut crossing the bridge of his nose and down one cheek.

"Looks like Josephine's got a twin." He taunted at Jay. He cursed at him as he whipped at the bleeding wound.

"_You t'ink dis is funny? I'm gonna come up there and beat that smile off you're face."_

"Unlikely. You won't even get past da front door."

As he spoke there was a rush of activity as dozens of feet pounded on the roof top. The sharpshooters had come, most half dressed and rubbing sleep out of there eyes. But there was also aa hunger for pain there. Most likely because they'd been interrupted from a good nights rest. Tyrone moved out of their way as they aligned themselves along the edge of the building, pulling slingshots from one pocket and loading up with bits of rock and glass from the other. Pear was still standing by the chimney and he made his way over to her as the shooters took aim.

"Dis is how Brooklyn handles our problems. Rogue could learn a t'ing or two from us." There was a call for fire and all of the boys let go their shots. The resulting cries of pain from below where enough to let anyone know their aim had been true.

She nodded and grabbed his hand, her sight trained on the sight in front of them.

"You forget she was a Brooklyn newsie once. Said it was childish fightin' wid rubber and wood when you'se got two able fists."

He laughed a little, "She's a fool." Pear was still watching the action playing out before them and he gave her a peck on the cheek.

"I'se sorry for yellin' at you like dat."

"So'kay. I figured it was important enough not to get my undies in a bunch ova it." She turned to him finally, "But you try it again and I'se gonna give you a soaking dat'll leave ya sore for da next year."

He laughed again and let go of his hand, "Gotta go find Spot and tell 'im what happened. You stay up 'ere till I get back. Just in case those goons find a way inside."

She nodded and turned back to the boys and their slingshots. He looked back once before making his way to the ladder and descending down, being careful not to put any weight on the steps that were rotting away with rust. When he got to the fire escape he climbed into a window and made his way down to the lobby. The atmosphere in the lodging house was almost electric, and he had to push his way through the crowd of excited newsies to get downstairs, ignoring any calls that were directed towards him. Everyone was looking for an explanation as to what was going on. Tyrone knew he had to report to Spot first before doing anything else.

He found him standing on front steps of the building, fully dressed and a cigarette hanging between his lips as he watched the two boys taking off down the street.

"You did good, Tyrone."

"Thanks." He smiled. Getting praise from Spot was like getting a Christmas present. It wasn't an everyday occurrence.

"We should probably send someone out to find Josephine. One of da bastards went after 'er. But she did cut one of 'em up pretty good." He went on the explain what had gone down in the past few minutes, leaving out the part about Pear being up on the roof, though. Spot stayed silent throughout the retelling, only nodding and flicking the ash off his cigarette occasionally. When Tyrone was done he handed him the rest of it and pulled his cap out of his back pocket.

"Tell Floata he's in charge till I get back. And make sure he takes care of dat Jose business."

"Sure." Tyrone replied and sucked hungrily from the cigarette he'd been given. Spot always had the best tabacco. "Where's you goin'?"

He was already down the stairs before he answered. "Ta Queens. Dat goil needs a wakeup call. I feel entitled ta give it to 'er." He slipped his cap on his head and continued walking. Tyrone watched him until he was no longer in sight. Considering his unusual advantage, it was awhile before he got inside to find Floater and give him his instructions.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: See first chapter.

**Author's Note**: Another long wait. Le sigh. All I can say is sorry. Nothing more aside from that. Except I hope you like it.

This Town  
Chapter 4

Rogue was pacing the kitchen floor when Brute walked in, his face neutral but his hazel eyes speaking volumes for his concern. A wave of relief crashed over her when she saw him. There were very few people that understood the strain that the newsie leaders were constantly under. Most lodging houses were run by the churches, forcing the kids who stayed there to go to school and service on a regular bases. But there were a few that were privately owned, allowing the boys and girls to run their own lives as long as they paid for the bed they slept in and didn't cause too much trouble. She had come into the position of leader of that particular lodging house by being in the right place at the wrong time, and happening to have a purse full of money. She never intended to be the one in charge. Unlike Spot, she had been quite content with staying behind the scenes, taking care of her and her own, and trying her damnedest to stay out of trouble.

Problem was, she couldn't seem to keep away from it. Trouble followed her to Manhattan, when her brother decided to hop on a train and rough it with her in the big city. Trouble found both her and Spot, forcing them to book it to Brooklyn and grow up much faster then either intended. When she moved on to Queens, trouble was there waiting for her in the form of a deed. Now trouble was ganging up on her from all sides and she was starting the crack under all the pressure.

If it wasn't for Brute's quiet strength, she would have gone stark raving mad a year ago. He was the only one that looked out for her and didn't expect anything in return. She'd given him a home and he'd given her a shoulder to lean on. Most people thought there was something more to their relationship and she could understand why when he walked over and warped his familiar arms around her in a gentle hug. They were wrong. He was like a brother. And he was better then the actual one she shared a womb with and made her life miserable at times.

"What was that for?" she asked as she pulled back.

"Thought you'd need it when ya see who's waiting outside."

The frown that she'd been wearing what seemed like all day deepened.

"Is it Conlon?"

He shook his head. "Worse. Though I figure he's on his way."

She sighed, scratching at her scalp. She hadn't had a bath in a few days. Hadn't had the time really, and she'd been hopping to get one while everyone was sleep. But news had come that Brooklyn had been attacked.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath as she shuffled out of the kitchen and to the front door, Brute on her heels. When she walked out the first thing she noticed was the cool breeze playing through her hair. If they were lucky they'd get some rain soon. Then she smelt the cigar smoke. Her stomach flip flopped as she bit her lip and turned to the figure that was leaning casually next to the door, one foot propped against the brick wall.

"What's the headline, Ro?"

She stared at him as if he was a ghost. He was dressed in dark slacks with suspenders and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. There was a bowler hat placed lazily over his dark hair, and he pulled it off for a fraction of a second when she first walked out. Jean Pierre had always been a charmer, and even if she didn't act like it most of the time, he always treated her like a lady.

"You're out late, JP," she replied as she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. He shrugged, sticking the cigar between his teeth before shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Heard there was some trouble at my building." A small smile formed around the cigar, "Thought I'd come ova see what the ruckus is all about."

"You realize you ain't a newsie no more, right?"

"Yeah, well I still own dat building," he blew out a cloud of smoke and it melted into the night air, "And don't get smart wit me, either."

She sighed, rolling her neck as she sat down on the stoop. Brute was standing in the doorway, waiting for their little talk to be done. She turned to look at him,

"Go get some sleep. You got work tomorrow." He started to protest but she cut him off. "Look, if you were pushing papes I wouldn't care. But you ain't gonna be no use to nobody at the factory if you're not rested. You're likely to get yourself killed."

He nodded finally, slinking back into the lodging house with near silent footsteps. Jean Pierre waited a moment before speaking again.

"How'd he learn ta be so quiet?" He asked, eying the open door. He was probably wary that Brute was still hanging around despite her order. Rogue wouldn't put it against him either.

"You heard the story a million times," she said, running the back of her thumb across her forehead, trying to ease the ache behind it. "A kid grows up in a bad home. He learns pretty quick the best way to stay away from a fist is to act like you aren't even there."

He nodded, pulling the cigar out of his mouth and spitting down onto the cobble stone street. "Yeah. I heard it. Different face, same story."

"Spots on his way."

"Figures."

"You gonna take me through the ringers now, or are you gonna wait for him to get here? I know you like ta hold an audience."

He didn't answer for a long while. Finally, he took another puff from the cigar and blew the foul smoke in her direction. She really hated that smell. It reminded her of her no good father. She didn't give him the satisfaction of crinkling her nose or waving the smoke away. He was doing it on purpose, trying to get a rise out of her.

"How's your brother doin'?"

She closed her eyes, suppressing a groan as she stuffed her face in the palms of her hands. He _knew_. Of course he did. He was the first and true leader of Brooklyn. Nothing got past his ears. She was in a bad spot. If Jean Pierre know, then there was no telling how many other people did. Wilcox included.

"You haven't told him, have ya?" she asked, not bothering to hid the desperation in her voice.

"I'm gonna give you the privilege of tellin' him." And as if he could sense the thoughts in her head he added, "If you don't, you'd be a damn fool. And I know you'se not a fool, Rogue."

Of course she wasn't. But she wasn't suicidal either. If Spot new the true reason behind this whole silly newsie war, her bad month would get about ten times as worse. She had worked too hard to let something like this bring all that she'd struggled for crashing down. What Conlon didn't know at the moment wouldn't hurt him.

"If I tell him now it would ruin everything," she said firmly.

"If you don't tell him soon, it'll ruin more."

"Aw, you make my head hurt," she whined.

He chuckled lightly as he stubbed his cigar out on the bottom of his shoe. She ignored him as she saw a familiar figure making it's way down the street. Standing up on stiff legs, she nodded at Spot as he walked up the steps.

"JP," he greeted, spitting in his hand and holding it out. Jean Pierre returned the gesture and they shook. He didn't bother to do the same with her when those blue eyes trained themselves in her direction.

He raised his chin at her. "Claudette."

She hadn't heard that name in a long time. Hadn't thought about really, except for the letter she received from her mother every few months. Spot was one of the few people in New York who knew her real name. He only ever used it when his was angry with her. And not just the normal annoyed with everything she did anger, but the 'if you were a boy I'd soak you' anger.

She raised a brow. If he wanted to play that way, she could too. "Desmond." She responded in kind, even lifting her own chin up to mimic him. He spit at the ground near her feet and she sneered. Honestly, what was with boys and that nasty habit? Despite her disgust, she didn't break his gaze. They continued this staring contest for almost a minute, while Jean Pierre glanced back and forth at the both of them. Finally he let out a curse and stepped between them, severing eye contact and ending the silent battle before a victor was declared.

"Alright, children, enough of this." He still had the cigar stuck between his lips, though it was unlit, and he chewed on it as he held up his hands. "Now isn't da time for petty games and name calling." Spot snorted while she rolled her eyes. Leave it up to him to call using a persons birth name 'name calling.'

"We obviously have a problem that needs sortin' and I'm not goin' to sit here and mother the both of you while I do all the figuring out."

Spot fingered the handle of his cane. He looked about ready to skin he alive.

"Your boys alright?"

"Just fine. Your kids are too."

She nodded. "I'm sorry about all dat, Spot. I didn't really think Wilcox would bother you'se guys."

"Seems to be your problem a lot lately, da not thinking," his jaw clenched, "He was looking for me, Rogue. You wouldn't happen to know why dat would be, would you?"

She cut a quick glance at Jean Pierre, who was watching the whole exchange with an amused smirk, hoping for once he'd keep his mouth shut. "I'se don't know, Spot. Maybe he wanted to know where you get those pretty pink suspenders from."

His dirty finger was suddenly in her face, his eyes a little darker as he frowned. "Don't get smart with me, goil."

"Won't be a problem, seeing as how I can't think and all."

"If you'se were a boy..." he let the threat hang in the air.

Reflecting on her actions later, she figured she must have suffered a momentary bought of insanity. A combination of stress, lack of sleep, and generally being pissed at everyone assuming she couldn't handle her business.

One second Spot was standing before her. The next he was clutching the stair rail, one hand cupping his mouth. She blinked, wondering what just had happened and why her knuckles were stinging when Jean Pierre let out an eloquently hissed, "merde."

Shit indeed. She had just punched a fellow leader. There was a brief moment of panic but she brushed it off before it could overwhelm her. Too late to take it back now, and seeing the look on his face, she really didn't want to. That punch was a long time coming. Spot Conlon and his superior attitude could rot in hell, busted lip and all.

Besides, they hadn't had a good fight in a long time. The tousle a few days ago didn't even come close.

His tongue snaked out the corner of his mouth, his frowned deepening ever more when he realized he was bleeding. Her glee was short lived when he set his jaw and lashed out at her with the back of his hand. She managed to avoid the blow, leaning back just in time to feel the wind from the force. But she lost her balance and had to shift a foot back to right herself. The only problem was there was no solid ground to step down on. It was then she remembered that they were still on the front stoop.

Using the only safety line available, she grabbed Spot's still outstretched arm, praying he saw that she was about to fall and pull her upright. She should have known better. The confusion on his face was almost comical as her momentum yanked him forward and they both went crashing down the stairs in a tangle of legs.

She cracked the back of her head on the sidewalk right as Spot's chest landed on her face. They were still half on the steps, her back pressed into the bottom stair, throbbing in rhythm with her heartbeat. He let out a muffled curse as he sifted, causing that stupid cane of his to dig painfully into her side.

"Jesus Christ."

She wanted to say something witty, but she couldn't seem to get the air in her lungs. Life must have been treating him good, because he sure had packed on some pounds. Finally the pressure was relieved as he slid off and sat down next to her, one knee propped up as he rested on his elbows.

She waited a few seconds before attempting to move, easing onto her side before getting her legs under her. She managed to sit up, wavering a little as her vision tilted.

"You'se alright?" He asked, a hand coming out to rest on her shoulder and steady her. Her expression must have been answer enough because he sighed and pulled her a little closer.

"Come 'ere," he said, "Where ya hurt?"

His fingers probed the back of her head and she winced when he touched the lump forming. He pulled his hand back, looking at it.

"Yah bleeding."

She did her own exploration, feeling the warm, sticky mess as it seeped through her hair. It wasn't much though and it felt like it was already clotting. Didn't changed the fact that it felt like a parade was going on between her eyes. She swore she could even hear the high pitched whistle of the drum major.

"Where else?"

She frowned. His voice sounded like it was coming from another room, "Huh?"

"Where else you hurt, Ro?" He sounded a little impatient, so she pointed to her back and closed her eyes. He touched her gently through the fabric of her shirt before un-tucking it to inspect the injury beneath.

"Just broke the skin a little, is all. You'll live."

She didn't think nodding was a good idea with the state her head was in so she just sat there. Not that it mattered because something that felt very much like a palmm collided with her temple, almost sending her back to the ground.

She gasped, catching herself on her elbow before turning to glare at him. His frown was back.

"Split my lip, you crazy broad."

She'd do a lot more then just that, she thought, her pain momentarily forgotten as she slapped him in his now swelling mouth.

That was enough to start things up again, this time on a level surface, as they scrambled around on the dirty sidewalk. It was a clumsy fight, full of knees and scratching, and an occasional bite on her part. Neither one of them was able to get the upper hand. There was no telling how long they could have kept it up if Jean Pierre hadn't stepped in to end it for them.

Rogue had forgotten all about him, focused on inflicting as much damage as she could to the lean body wrestling with hers. But when something wet and filthy was splashed onto them she stopped an inch away from grabbing Spots throat and turned to look up at the doorway.

"What the hell, JP?" she scrambled off of Spot and sat down hard on her rear, pulling at her soaked shift to sniff it. "What was that?"

Jean Pierre looked down at the bucket in his hand, "Dish water, I think. Found it in the kitchen."

She glanced down at Spot, her anger now aimed at the older man rather then him, to find him still laying on his back with a dirty cloth clinging to half of his head. She bit her lip, nudging him with her booted foot,

"Hey kid, you got somethin' on your face."

He sat up, pulling the wash rag away and flinging it to the side. He didn't seem amused at all, but she couldn't help but smirk at his dripping cap and sour expression.

"So do you, doll," he said finally and pointed to her check.

She reached up and came in contact with something cold and mushy, whipping it off with a grimace and looking down at her hand to identify it. The white mass must have been the remains of someone's dinner roll. She ran her hand on the thigh of her pants, trying to get the gritty mess of her fingers. When she looked at Spot again, his eyes were dancing with suppressed laughter, despite his stern look. It was too hard trying to hold her scowl and after a few silent seconds they both erupted in a fit of giggles. Well, his was more of a deep chuckle. Spot didn't giggle. It wasn't becoming of a Brooklyn leader.

He slung an arm over her shoulder, patting her on the check with his other hand. "We haven't argued like that in a while."

She grinned, "Been a least a month, yeah?"

"No one's made me bleed in a long time," he turned his attention to Jean Pierre, who was standing at the top of the stars shaking his head. "Someone should give dis goil a medal," he said while pointing at her.

"Someone should stick the both of you in a mental institute," he replied as the set the bucket down and made his way to the side walk. "Now that you two hotheads have cooled off, I can tell ya I may come up with somethin' to help."

The silliness stopped and they both looked up at him, eager to hear what he'd come up with. It was Jean Pierre though, and he took his sweet time as he pulled out a match to relight his cigar.

"You two look like drowned gutta rats," he commented, "Get off da ground and straighten yourselves out. At least _try_ to act your age."

Spot hauled himself to his feet, reaching out a hand to help her when she groaned at the protest her body was giving her. It was clear who was the winner of their scuffle.

A flask was stuck in her face and she took it from Jean Pierre's outstretched hand without argument. The liquid burned it's way down her throat as she tried to hand it back to him.

"Keep it," he said, "You're gonna need it."

She didn't argue. Already her head was starting to pound furiously again, the adrenaline wearing off and being replace with fatigue.

"So what's your idea," Spot asked.

"Later. Right now we'se are going for a walk."

She frowned, capping the flask and sticking it in her back pocket. The only thing that she felt like doing was crawling into her bed. But Jean Pierre gave her a look that left no room for argument.

"Where we going?"

He smiled, exposing a row of slightly uneven but white teeth. "To dah Bronx."

As he started down the street she and Spot glanced at each other before following. Whatever he was cooking up, they both knew it was going to be interesting. Maybe even dangerous. She took another swig from the flask, clearing her mind of ache and apprehension and set a steady pace. She was floating now, the most she could focus on at one time was keeping one foot in front of the other. Everything else could wait for when they reached their destination.


End file.
